


Blessing In Disguise

by cadkitten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Watson get pulled in on a case for the police involving counterfeiting. Not their usual type of case, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Events pull the pair closer together than either ever thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessing In Disguise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamesgeek3](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jamesgeek3).



> Beta Readers: sakura_ame  
> Song[s]: "Black to White (feat. Miss Palmer) by Felix Cartal

It wasn't the most usual of cases, that much was more than certain. They had been asked in - well, more like begged - by the police to help with this case. They'd been working on it for a week and still nothing seemed to add up. And so, they had finally drawn Sherlock and Watson in on the case. Sherlock had been reluctant, he'd had bigger things on his mind, such as Moriarty. But Watson had convinced him in the end.

At first, it had been a great many interviews, rushing around and trying to figure out why on earth they were in on a counterfeiting case. The reasoning became clear somewhere within the second day, Sherlock's quick deductions leading them to one of the larger crime circuits within the city and right into the path of a dead body; something the police had never put together in their entire week working it.

Once the evidence had been collected, things were as clear as they could be without finally meeting Julia, the victim of this whole thing. She shared a two bedroom house with her fiancé Richard and four of the most mismatched assortment of children Watson had ever laid eyes upon. A quick check on their backgrounds had led him to the information that each had a different father and none of them belonged to the current fiancé. 

With all their background workups on the other members of the household, they made preparations to meet them, finding the only chance they would have before the couple was due to be married and depart town was to make an appearance at the charity dinner they had organized in lieu of a reception. It was a formal, black-tie occasion and while Watson had been secretly a bit thrilled on the aspect, Sherlock had looked fairly put upon. The man didn't own a single black suit, all of them tailored and gorgeous, but mostly in greys and browns, occasionally in navy.

It was with great reluctance on Sherlock's part that John had dragged him off to the tailor and laid down the cash to get the man fitted into a decent party suit. They'd gone all out, black with silver pinstripe, white shirt, black tie, and a silver vest, the brocade patterned with the smallest of fluer de lis upon it. John's own suit was from the same tailor, nearly identical save the vest, which was a deep burgundy in color and the fact that his suit was simple black. The cut was the same and the way it flattered them equal.

The day prior, Watson opened the door to the flat, finding Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, a quartz topped cane in hand, a weary look on his face. Smooth as ever, John laid his bag down on the couch and settled on the edge of the seat. "Sher-" he didn't get the rest out before his partner was talking over him.

"We should find dates, I suppose. It will reflect badly upon us if we don't bring someone." It wasn't usual to find Sherlock worrying about something like that. "Or at least you should. They expect such social things to be beneath me. But, for you..." he waved his hand idly, tossing the cane into the umbrella stand by the door and then turning. "There's the nice girl down the street. She's been looking at you."

Watson frowned, leaning forward enough to brace his forearms against his knees. "I don't want to go with a girl." Some frail part of him had been hoping the somewhat matching suits may have given away his intentions, but it appeared that the one thing Sherlock's deduction failed at was emotion. Specifically, the emotional state of his partner.

Holmes paused - he'd been on his way to the kitchen. "A man then? There's always that flower market boy down on the corner. He looks the type."

 _The type._ So typical, so cold. John bristled somewhat at the statement and the way it was delivered. "What the hell do you mean, _the type_? If you have something to say about my sexuality, then just fucking say it." By the time he'd finished, he was standing, anger crossing his face.

Sherlock studied him with an indifferent look for a moment and then turned away, continuing toward the kitchen. After a few moments of things banging around, he finally spoke up again. "I was not making a statement about your sexuality. I was making a statement about the way the young man looks. I have used your laptop before, John." Sherlock reappeared with two cups of tea, holding one out to Watson. "Now sit down and dislodge the porcupine from your anal passage."

John stared at Sherlock for a few moments before accepting the tea cup and then seating himself again. "You... looked through my personal files?"

Sherlock seated himself next to the other man and neatly crossed one leg over the other, taking a sip of his tea. "You expected any less? How long have you been living here?"

John settled back, heaving out a sigh. "You..." he shook his head, "you have no respect for privacy, do you?"

"I need to know the secrets of my partner or there would be no point in keeping you around. I need to trust you implicitly in order to function." The words should have been more innocuous than they actually came forward as being, but they weren't. In fact, they quickened John's heartbeat, hitched his breath, and sent his mind into a never ending spiral. _Partner_.... _trust_. 

"You have nothing to say about my preferences then?" Somehow that was the least expected thing of the day.

Sherlock leveled his gaze with Watson over the top of his cup. "The few times I have chosen to partake in such actions, it has always been with a man. I do not consider myself homosexual, but I do prefer the way a male views certain aspects of things." He took another sip of his tea, as though he'd never said anything at all.

Watson blinked at his partner for a moment and then huffed out a little laugh. "You watched the videos then. Not just noticed them. That's..." he shook his head. Placing his tea on the doily on the table, he leaned forward again and then turned his head to stare at Sherlock. "Did you... you know?"

"Masturbate?" Sherlock finished his tea off and placed the cup beside John's. "That's a rather private question."

"And going through my private files was rude. Call it fair trade." In all honesty, Watson couldn't believe he was asking this of Sherlock of all people, but some part of him really wanted to know.

There was a moment of complete silence, one long stretch of time in which Watson was sure Sherlock wouldn't reply. And then, "Yes. The one with the blond man and the taller brunette involving handcuffs was particularly... fruitful." With that, he stood up, choosing to make his way right in front of Watson, turned toward him rather than his usual away. And as he passed, Watson couldn't help but allow himself a look. 

What he found forced a gasp from his lips and an instant response from his body. Sherlock was aroused, the outline of his prick firmly pressing against the front of his trousers. It was in that moment that he realized Sherlock had stopped, that he wasn't leaving. Breathing harsh, John looked up, finding Sherlock staring down at him, his eyes dark and a look on his face that could only be described as predatory. So _this_ was what Sherlock looked like when his sexual desires got the better of him.

Wetting his lips, John didn't even ask, he didn't feel the need to do so. The placement of Sherlock's body and the way he'd stopped there in front of him had been invitation enough. Reaching up, he grasped Sherlock's belt, unfastening the brown leather and making quick work of the button and zipper, easing the grey slacks down Sherlock's legs. He grasped the other's briefs - something he'd long suspected - and looked back up at Sherlock, seeking approval for this final step.

Sherlock stood there, his head lifted, a regal look on his face as he stared at the wall just above John's head. Detached. There was something almost unsettling about that, but John had waited long enough. Even if it was the coldest exchange he'd ever had, he still wanted it. He'd spent long enough developing an attachment to Sherlock and if this was what he'd earn from it, then it was certainly better than what little they already had. Perhaps... he could make a regular habit out of it. Provide the necessary release for Sherlock when needed and maybe talk him into a little reciprocation as well.

Easing the briefs down as well, John felt his breath catch in his throat as he revealed the detective's length. He was perfection, as though sculpted from marble, down to the very smoothness of his skin beneath his palm as he grasped his cock in hand. Sherlock's hips canted forward and a shudder rippled through the detective's body, a groan leaving his lips. "How long?" John breathed out before he leaned in and slid his tongue over the barely exposed tip of the other man's cock.

Sherlock shifted himself, using one hand to steady himself on John's shoulder. "One year, forty-seven days, and-"

John actually laughed. Of course he'd remember the hours and probably minutes and seconds. It was so very Sherlock to retain such information. "Then I'll make it worth every moment spent waiting." With that, he slid his mouth over the head of Sherlock's prick, slowly easing down on his shaft. Even as he began to bob his head, he realized just how long he'd been waiting on this... or at least on something like this. One hand grasped Sherlock's hip, his thumb sliding over the slight protrusion of his hip bone, the other settling over his own crotch, the heel of his hand rubbing at his own aching length. 

The minutes ticked by before, fairly suddenly, Sherlock pulled himself back, stepping back just far enough that he was out of John's grasp. When Watson looked up at him, he could see the most glorious of things coming over Sherlock, the look of utter loss of control on his face, the wild sheen to his eyes that betrayed everything his body hadn't. The man was desperate for release and hanging on by a thread.

"Sherlock," John whispered out, "let me finish." He put on his very best pleading look as he stared up into that nearly frantic face.

But Sherlock was already pulling up his briefs, the look on his face shifting to one that was more agitated than anything as he pulled his trousers up as well. He started for the bedroom, his pace quick albeit jerky, his back rigid and his chest heaving with what Watson could only guess was a loss of control.

Pushing himself up, Watson followed after him, catching the door before it slammed in his face and shoving his way inside. He leaned back against it so as to bar Sherlock into the room, though the other didn't even seem to notice, simply going to the bed, methodically ridding himself of all of his clothing, and then kneeling in the floor, facing the bed.

Watson stood, watching, unable to force his brain to categorize exactly what was going on, confusion gluing him in place for the time being. Even as Sherlock took himself in hand and began to manipulate himself, the other hand fisted tight in the comforter of the bed, he found it difficult to process what was happening. He snapped out of it when Sherlock's body began to tense, the movements of his arm growing forced, his ass clenching, and his back going rigid. John moved then, going to Sherlock and kneeling behind him, one leg on each side of the detective's own. Pulling up his sleeve, he reached around and laced his fingers with Sherlock's own, pressing flush against his backside, his hips canting forward so the other man could feel how turned on he was. "I said let me finish," he breathed out, turning his head to lick lightly at the column of pale flesh that had so interested him for so long now.

Not a protest was heard from Sherlock. Rather, he just remained quiet, allowing John to help him, his hips pressing back against Watson's body, pressing harder against his cock. John slid his other hand up Sherlock's chest, finding one nipple and lightly squeezing it as he kissed over Sherlock's shoulder. "Let me hear you. I need to know what you sound like when you lose it, Sherlock. I've wanted to know for a long time now."

It was those words that pushed Sherlock over the edge, his body straining to the point that he began to shake. And then the coil snapped within him, a sharp cry of relief issuing from him as he shot his offering over the floor beneath the bed. John stroked him dry, milking the last bit out and wiping it with his index finger before pulling his hand up to show it to Sherlock. "Look what I did to you. I gave you your relief. And I want to do it again." Bluntness was the only way this was remotely going to work with Sherlock and he knew it. All pride to the wind. 

Sherlock loosened his grip on the bed and then leaned forward on it, resting his head on the crook of his arm. "Take your relief, John."

It was cold, almost unfeeling, and John was struck with the detached way it was said, alarm bells going off in his head. It was consent and yet... it wasn't. Easing himself back from Sherlock, he flopped down beside him, wiping his fingers on the underside hem of his sweater. "I will be just fine." When Sherlock turned his head to look at him, the most confused look he'd ever seen was painted across his features. Reaching out, John lightly pushed some of Sherlock's bangs back from his forehead. "I don't just want consensual, I want mutual. You have to like it to or I'm not going to do it. Any other way is the way of bastards."

Sherlock closed his eyes and simply remained there for a few more moments before finally replying, "Don't you require relief? Your prick is still hard."

The way it came off Sherlock's tongue nearly made Watson feel like an embarrassed teenager again. But the feeling passed quickly and he just tilted his head back, sliding his palm down over his cock to ease some of the ache. "I will be just fine."

Sherlock stood up then, walking naked from the room and disappearing into the bathroom. When he heard the shower turn on, he took his chance, opening his trousers and grasping himself with the same hand he'd just eased Sherlock's ache with, arching into his own touch, clinging to the knob of the bed as he strained to do this as quickly as possible.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway a few moments later and John gasped, instantly hunching in on himself and hissing out, "You're supposed to be showering!"

For the first time in ages, John saw the hint of laughter in the detective's eyes. Even as Sherlock eased himself down onto the floor in front of him, he couldn't quite get his hand to stop the semi-frantic movements it was making over his cock. He was beyond aroused, his body aching for relief. His hips arched as Sherlock reached to tug on his wrist, pulling his hand away and replacing it with his own.

Sherlock leaned in, whispering in his ear, "Don't tell a soul, John... but this is my favorite part."

John let out a groan, falling back against the side of the bed, one hand moving to tangle in Sherlock's dark hair, tugging lightly at key moments. Soon enough, he was straining upward again, his hips jerking ever so slightly as the tingly fingers of arousal slid through his body. He was going to cum and it was going to be by Sherlock's own hand, not his own.

What he didn't expect was the moments right before the cord snapped. Sherlock moved fast, sliding onto his lap and pressing himself close, his mouth finding John's own and kissing him hard enough to take his breath away. And then it happened. Everything went stark white and John's hips jerked upward violently a few times, his orgasm ripping through him a few milliseconds before his cock began to spurt over Sherlock's hand. Grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's hair and tugging hard, John strained through the whole thing, his body letting him know he was enjoying this more than anything he'd done in recent history.

When it was finally over, he sank back down to the floor, a little groan of appreciation leaving his lips as Sherlock parted from him, studying him with a look John had never seen for a few moments before the mask slid back into place; cool, calm, and collected Sherlock front and center again. "You've cum all over my hand," Sherlock informed before reaching to remove John's hand from his hair, smoothly pulling himself upright and then heading toward the bathroom once again. "You may join me if you wish."

John sat there for a few moments, feeling completely dazed and more than a little confused. Breathing out a sigh, he leaned his head back and laughed. He laughed because he could do nothing else. He laughed because none of it made a lick of sense. And mostly... he laughed because he'd finally gotten some piece of what he'd been yearning to obtain.

Perhaps, he decided, this case had been a blessing in disguise.

**The End**


End file.
